


Safety

by comtessedebussy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Kink Meme, Knifeplay, Light BDSM, M/M, Manhandling, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A completely different take on Dean's post-Hell trauma and his way of dealing with it than my last fic. </p><p>Dean decides that the only way for him to get over his trauma is through a fake non-con scene. He asks Castiel to help - after all, who better than a powerful angel to make him feel both helpless and safe? Needless to say, the happy ending comes only after the unavoidable angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety

They were looking at the stars.

Castiel was ambivalent about stargazing. On the one hand, he could easily flit through space and see any of those great stars being born from gas and dust, burning with a fiery rage, and then extinguishing themselves in a celestial explosion. On the other hand, there was something indescribably appealing about seeing the stars from earth. From the human perspective. Beer in hand, on the hood of the Impala, as Cas knew Dean has spent many nights of his life with Sam, gazing at the sky with human eyes.

As for Dean…well, anytime he looked at the stars, he thought of Cas. He knew the stars burned with a wild fire, full of terrifying power and yet somehow, when he looked on them, they were so harmless. It was like that with Cas – he was a being of unfathomable power and might and yet, to him, Castiel brought the peace and calm and slight breathlessness that came with looking up at the star-studded sky.

Castiel breaks the silence after a while. “They’re beautiful,” he said, stating the obvious and yet sounding as if he spoke of something else. “Even though they are distant.”

Dean nods.

 “They remind me of you, you know,” he offers.

Castiel turns his head and raises an eyebrow.

“Great big balls of energy that could burn me to a crisp? Which are still, for some unfathomable reason, breathtaking? Yeah, sounds like you.” Dean leans back, relaxing. “God, Cas, when you walked in that first time…you literally made sparks fly between us, you know that? You were more powerful than I could imagine and I was fucking terrified and kinda turned on too.”

Castiel just keeps looking at Dean, tilting his head and blinking like a curious kitten, of all things.

 “I did not know that you found fear…arousing,” he says slowly.

“Not fear. You. You were powerful enough to through me back into Hell if you wanted to, and I was scared, fucking terrified, but there was also something about you…”Dean sighs. “The thoughts I had about you sometimes…definitely thoughts that would’ve gotten me thrown back into Hell.”

“Tell me,” Castiel commands in his deep voice, and Dean can’t help but obey.

“I wanted you to make me helpless,” he says. “Hold me against the closest surface and fuck my brains out. It wouldn’t even cost you an ounce of effort, would it? I’d never wanted to be _powerless_ until I met you.”

Dean pauses.

“I dreamed about it, sometimes. Thank God you didn’t barge into my dreams all that often. If you did you might just have thrown me back into Hell.”

Castiel is looking at him attentively, forehead slightly creased in consternation, but there is no judgment, no condescension there, and maybe it’s the beer that’s making Dean a bit more reckless, but he plows on.

“I think it’s because…well. You make me feel safe. You have, for a long time. And, I think, if you had your way with me – “ he pause, gathers his words together and then leaps headfirst into a confession – “it’d be like being back in Hell, except that I’d feel safe, and…” pausing again, he takes a deep breath. “Well, maybe after that Hell won’t bother me as much.”

Castiel looks at once like he understands and like he doesn’t.

 “So you want me to hurt you.” Dean nods. “Hit you until you’re bruised and bleeding? Ignore your pain? Make you helpless until I get my satisfaction?”

Dean’s breath catches as Cas enumerates these things.

“Yeah.” He finally looks up at Cas again.

“I can’t do that, Dean,” he says quietly. “Especially not if you let me.”

“Who said I’m going to let you? What, you expect me not to fight back? I need to be able to fight back, but no matter how much I do, you can’t stop.” He doesn’t know at what pointed they’ve passed from discussing the theoretically to laying out the ground rules, but somehow Cas is following him down this path, Cas who of all people knows what he still sees in his dreams sometimes,  and now he can’t just shut up and forget he ever mentioned it.

Castiel shakes his head emphatically.

“I can’t do it, Dean. Not like that. Not when I know that you might actually want me to stop. I can’t hurt you.” He looks at Dean with pleading eyes. Ah, how far he’s come from the angel that seemed so indifferent to human pain!

 “Well, we humans, we have these things called safewords,” Dean explains. “ Sometimes humans like to…you know, get a little rough. And a safeword is a word you say when you want to actually stop. Like a timeout.”

“And you promise you’ll say it, this word?”

“Yeah, Cas, course I will.”

Castiel looks at Dean pointedly, and Dean glances away from the piercing gaze.

“You never beg, Dean. You certainly won’t beg me, and I can’t do this knowing that.”

“Yeah, well….I promise, all right? I promise that if I don’t like it, I’ll tell you to stop. But if it’s working, then you’ll keep going.”  He doesn’t know how to make Cas get it, so he repeats himself, hoping that’ll do that trick. “You can’t stop, do you understand?

“hmm,” is all Castiel says and Dean quiets. He’s already admitted to too much. Castiel knew what happened down there in Hell, and knew, doubtless, how much those things haunted Dean, but asking for help dealing with them? He thinks he’s used up his quota of asking for help for the day.

They don’t talk about it any more than that, that night. Dean finishes his beer (or three), and Castiel, downs a whole six pack without it having a seeming effect on him. Then they drive back, after Castiel insists Dean waits long enough to be able to drive. The bunker is familiar, welcoming them home, and Dean holds his breath as they pass Cas’ door (Cas follows Dean to his room, as he does every night, in unspoken agreement, though Dean still hasn’t stopped holding his breath each time). He flicks on his light, wonders what Cas will be in the mood for tonight – whether Cas will ask him to make love to him tonight or simply fuck him, or if they’ll simply fall asleep in each other’s arms. He turns to Cas -

Before he’s even turned all the way around, he finds himself thrown against the wall until the breath is knocked out of him. His first thought is that demons have somehow broached their sanctuary, and Hell flashes quickly in his mind, but before he even has time to get all the way through thinking it, Cas is there, holding his arms above his head in a tight grip, body pressed against this. Castiel wastes no time; he kisses Dean. Dean’s completely unprepared for the violence of the kiss, the way Castiel’s lips take everything and still demand _more._ He kisses and kisses until Dean can’t breathe, or move; he can only feel the solid weight of Castiel’s body against his, the fabric of his trenchcoat against his own skin, Castiels’ firm hands against his wrists. He closes his eyes and feels Castiel surrounding him and leans into him, offering the rest of himself up to the angel’s violence.

Finally, Castiel breaks away just when Dean thinks he can’t go another second without breathing and looks into Dean’s eyes. He looks wild and wind-swept, ruffled and dangerous, just as Dean needs him to look tonight. “This is what you want?” he asks, menacing, eyes glinting, though Dean can just tell that what Cas is really asking for is reassurance. Permission.

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes. They’re icy-blue, but somehow Dean finds warmth and comfort in them.

 “God yes,” Dean whispers.

“Then I suggest that you stop using the Lord’s name in vain,” Castiel says. It’s a petty line, or at least it would be, though Dean suspects for Castiel it’s actually a very serious matter. As far as sex talk goes, it’s hardly a turn on, but when Cas says it, all might and anger and desire to protect his Father’s name at all costs, Dean believes him.

Castiel releases Dean, who loses his balance, falling away from the wall until Castiel grabs him by the collar, pulling him up to land a solid punch in the region of his solar plexus. He stumbles back several steps, winded, only to feel Castiel’s fist driving into him again. The familiar feeling of having the breath knocked out of him descends, smothering him like a blanket, and he reaches an arm out haphazardly, finding one of the pillars of the bed and clutching at it for support.

 “Son of a bitch,” he mutters instinctively and sees a look of uncertainty pass across Castiel’s face.

“Well, are you going to just stand there, then? Finish what you started, you son of a bitch,” Dean eggs him on, hoping Castiel will catch the hint, that he won’t stop, because he can’t stop, not now, when this is going so well. He _needs_ Cas to keep going and never stop, because Dean can almost feel him beating the nightmares and the flashbacks and the fear out of him mercilessly.

Castiel approaches, grabs Dean by the hair and pulls his head back.

“Don’t worry, Dean. You’ll get exactly what you deserve,” he says softly, before bringing his arm down. Dean expects another punch, because there’s no way his pretty face would survive an angel’s wrath, but Castiel merely backhands Dean, who falls on the bed from the force of the blow. The bed catches him, soft and pliable, and he feels angry at it, because no, it’s not enough, he needs _more,_ he needs to crash into unyielding wood or cold concrete, not the safety of his bed. He feels his face sting from the blow, and there are stars invading the periphery of his vision with their insistent twinkling, but it’s all so little, so harmless. He pushes himself off the bed, faces Cas wordlessly in a fighter’s stance.

Castiel approaches, almost nonchalantly, before throwing another punch with the same insouciance.  Dean’s instincts kick in, and, surprisingly, he manages to stop this one before it reaches him. He even manages to swing back before Castiel catches his wrist without batting an eye, holding it in a blood-vessel-crunching grip as he lands the punch that throws Dean back on the bed.

Dean blinks, disoriented, and recovers his sense of direction just as Castiel lands on top of him. The bed is still too goddamn soft, but at least Castiel’s on top of him now, pinning him down with his weight and dragging Dean’s mind away from the soft surface. He struggles, attempting to escape Castiel’s grip and interspersing his efforts with orders of “get off me” and “you son of a bitch.” The mattress creaks in loud protests as he struggles and Dean wonders how much of tonight’s violence the memory foam will retain.

“No,” is all he gets in response before Castiel easily pins his arms above his head. Dean’s already worn out from struggling, and the ease with which Castiel renders him helpless makes him want to simply surrender to the angel, to lie here on this bed that knows him. He wants to let Castiel hold him down as if he wants to keep him there forever, safe from the rest of the world. Castiel evidently senses Dean’s comfort, because he pulls away and lands another blow that Dean is helpless to stop. His jaw screams in protest, and while he attempts to regain enough movement in it to curse at Castiel again, the angel strips his shirts from him in several deft movements, revealing the rest of his helpless body to the angel.

Then there’s a rope, conjured out of nowhere, and suddenly instead of Castiel’s hands holding him down there’s a rope tied around his wrists. Either Castiel is skillful or (and this is the more likely option) he’s using angel mojo, but the knots are suddenly and expertly tied before he can blink. Castiel doesn’t bother being delicate, and the rope bites into his skin as Castiel pulls the knots tight, much tighter than they need to be before attaching them to the headboard. He attempts to move his wrists, and the rope, rough and coarse, chafes his wrists. He can feel it cutting off the blood flow.

Now that Dean’s completely helpless, Castiel examines Dean’s body leisurely, as if deciding what to start on next. Dean fidgets in anticipation, attempting to read Castiel’s expression. He catches neither doubt nor satisfaction in his face; it is merely impassive, and Dean supposes he must content himself with that.

He sees the glint of a knife and tenses immediately. When he’d told Sam that Alistair had carved at him in ways no one could imagine, he’d meant literally that. Of all the possibilities offered by Hell, it was always knives. Knives were a delicate tool, to be handled with precision, almost an artist’s tool. They weren’t like whips, which were imprecise, unhoned instruments. Not like fire, because that had a mind of its own. No, it was always knives, and how often now Dean had to turn away from the glint of a blade because it reminded him of a knife slicing away at him and then inside him, stuck into the most sensitive spots.

He raises his eyes from the knife to Castiel’s face and, almost unwillingly, relaxes immediately. Castiel’s face looks careful; not the ice-cold care of a demon taking care not to harm his plaything, but the care of an angel who watches over him. The feeling of vulnerability fades away, as if he’s not stretched out helplessly before an angel with a knife. Castiel angles the blade so that it catches the light, and Dean understands that he’s evoking memories of Hell, memories of firelight catching on blades that glinted until they were covered in blood. Those memories come and go, but they cannot touch him, not with an angel standing between him and the torments of Hell. He lies still, waiting for Castiel to have his way with this body of his, then watches in awe as Castiel slowly brings the knife down.

Castiel is careful. Precise, too, as if he’s spent decades handling knives and slicing skin, but something tells Dean that this is something Castiel hasn’t done. He starts at Dean’s neck, barely nicking the skin, then cutting deeper and deeper as the knife slices down, down, down his torso and stomach. It stings, of course, as his skin parts before the blade, thin as a hair and sharp to go with it. The blade parts the skin almost too quickly for the blood to come to the surface, and when Castiel lifts the knife it’s barely stained with red drops. Castiel throws it aside, and the cut itself, Dean realizes, was nothing but a token gesture, a reminder of what he was supposed to remember rather than a tool in their scene.

After that, Castiel doesn’t take long to open him up – one finger, two fingers, minimal lube, and then forces his way inside. He feels too tight as Castiel invades him, and the memories come back again and claw at him, reminding him of former invasions and useless protests long abandoned. He lets out an instinctive “no” that’s ignored as Castiel begins to thrust, and when he attempts protest with his body, Castiel’s fingers bite into his hips, holding him down with bruises-to-be.

Cas fucks him open thoroughly, and Dean’ feels like he’s splitting in half. It’s a familiar feeling, but somehow, somewhere, Dean stops protesting it and realizes it’s _Castiel_ taking what he will. His tension all but dissipates once again, and his body relaxes, opens up. And when Castiel’s hand finds its way to his own erection – the only obvious intimation Castiel makes that this is not just for him, but for _Dean,_ Dean is ready to sing praises to the angel. “Cas, please,” he begs, and this is one please that Castiel does not ignore tonight. His hand moves in tandem with his thrusts, and Dean comes harder than he has in a while, shouting his release and then sobbing in exhaustion and relief.

When Cas pulls away, though, he’s all care and tenderness. As Dean relaxes blissfully, Castiel looks down at him with worry and concentration. “Dean. Are you all right?”

“Course I am, Cas.” He pauses, then adds, “Thanks.” A gruff word, quickly said.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel responds, his voice so devoid of intonation that Dean feels he has to add,  “That was fucking amazing, you using all your strength like that.”

 “I was only using a small portion of my strength. Actually, I was holding back most of it. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Dean looks at him and whistles.

“Dude, if that was you _holding back,_ remind me to never actually piss you off,” he quips. He feels so damn good, so damn relieved, that he feels like he could sing and joke all day.

But Castiel is all seriousness when he runs a hand down Dean’s face, and says, solemnly, “I could never hurt you, Dean.”

Sated and content, Dean drifts off to sleep with his arms around Castiel. Angels don’t sleep, of course, but Castiel is content to lie with Dean’s body next to him and watch the hunter sleep. To watch over him. He notices the soft rise and fall of Dean’s chest, notices the way his eyelashes fall over his cheeks, hiding those beautiful green eyes. Notices the strength of the body. And notices, as the hours slowly pass by, as bruises blossom all over Dean’s body. There, on his wrists, where Castiel gripped them. At his waist, where Castiel had held him down. On his torso, where Castiel punched him repeatedly. On his shoulders, too, though Castiel barely remembers leaving those.

And then the memories hit him. The thought of Dean struggling, shouting “no” as Cas ignored him. He remembered the way Dean had felt almost weightless each time Castiel hit him. The way his body submitted helplessly to Castiel’s force because it could do nothing else. And what had he said? “I could never hurt you”? Had Dean actually believed him? He _had_ hurt Dean, and he’d lied, said he could never hurt that man. Dean had been so _happy,_ too, happy that Castiel hurt him, and at first Castiel had thought that he could borrow Dean’s happiness, live on it. But those memories hit him like a train at full speed (and since when, thought Castiel, did he take to such human metaphors?)

“What have I done?” he asks himself.

By the time Dean wakes up, Castiel’s a wreck. He wants to hold Dean, but doesn’t know how to place his hands where they won’t hurt, and besides, he’s afraid to touch Dean. His hands can’t touch him now, not when they’ve left an ocean of black and blue.

 “Dean,” Castiel says as soon as Dean opens his eyes. Worry laces his voice.

“Morning, Cas,” Dean says sleepily, brightening up considerably as he looks up at Cas.

“Morning, Dean,” Castiel replies non-commitally.

Dean makes it out of bed with a few more groans (God, he’s _bruised._ This was one part he didn’t think through) and pads to the bathroom. When he comes out, Castiel is sitting on the bed, head clutched in his hands. He glances up at Dean, takes in his ruffled morning appearance – hair still standing on end – as well as the bruises still visible even though Dean’s donned a t-shirt and jeans. Castiel looks pained.

“Cas?” Dean asks. And he’d just been thinking it’s a good day. He approaches the angel and looks down at him.

Castiel slips off the bed, kneels in front of Dean, whispers “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“What? Why? Cas – “ He stares down at the angel confusedly. Castiel takes Dean’s hands in his, gently, kisses his wrists where his fingers had left bruises and the rope chafed the skin. “I’m so sorry, Dean, I – “

“Cas, damn it, get up. What is this?” Dean instantly regrets his harsh tone as Castiel looks like he’s about to cry. He blinks before rising to his feet, head still bowed.

“I hurt you,” he whispers, as if that explains everything.

“Yeah, you did. And it worked. Cas, I think it actually worked. I felt _safe,_ Cas.” Dean sounds so _happy,_ so elated, and Cas just can’t take it. He cannot accept this man’s happiness at having been beaten, hurt, abused.

He begins to feel rage.

“ _Safe?_ “ He thunders. “Why would you feel safe when you’re getting _hurt?_ Dean, I – I feel like _Hell._ You do remember what that feels like, don’t you? How you had to live with yourself after hurting those souls in Hell? Why did you have to put me through that, Dean? What have I ever done except for you?”

“ _Cas,”_ Dean says in an attempt to placate the angel. Castiel just looks more desperate and more angry. Dean suddenly feels very, very guilty. He should’ve carried Hell around with him instead of dumping it on Cas, of all people.

“You were in pain. I could feel your body breaking every time I hit you. I saw your pain. I heard you ask me to stop. And I didn’t. I have to live with those memories now, Dean. You do know what that’s like, isn’t it? Living with the memory of inflicting pain on an unwilling soul?”

 _Shit shit shit shit shit,_ Dean thinks. Of course he remembered what Cas was alluding to. He could still barely live with himself some mornings. He didn’t deserve Cas’ love and devotion for all the things he’d done in Hell, and now, on top of that, he’d hurt Cas too.

He sinks down onto the bed and buries his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he whispers, and they stare at each other like that for a while, apologies and anger on both their lips.

“I’m sorry I put you through that,” he adds, as if he wasn’t clear the first time. What else could he say? That it wasn’t that bad compared to what he’s been through? What did that matter? That wouldn’t make Cas feel better. That he’d heal? Of course he’d heal, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t felt pain. That he felt better now? He didn’t have a right to feeling “better.”

“Cas,” he says finally. “Look, I – I’m sorry. I know I didn’t have a right to ask you for that. I needed it, Cas, and it helped me, but I didn’t have a right to put you through that. After everything you’ve done for me….” Dean shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He looks at Castiel desperately, as if he can wash the memories away with a torrent of “I’m sorry.”

Castiel looks at him, drinking in every word as if it’s balm, and yet somehow not looking any better for it.

“I understand, Dean. I understand the how, and the why, and I do think human minds are strange things, but I think I understand why you needed this. But,” and he looks down, almost guilty, “I still feel….wrong. As if I took advantage. Even though you gave me permission. Perhaps because I know that I am so much stronger than you. Possibly because it brings back memories of a time when I would’ve acted as I had done, inflicted that much pain so coldly, without a second thought. I never want to become that _thing_ again, Dean. The one that was capable of smiting thousands on orders.”

Dean exhales. So that’s what this has taken Castiel back to. That was his personal Hell. His memories of serving Heaven.

Castiel looks as if he knows exactly what Dean’s thinking. Nods. “And you…you are the one who made me change. Who showed me what was right, who let me leave that past behind. Even though sometimes I miss the past, I miss serving my father, but….I’m different now. I’m glad you showed me how to be different. And that I would go back to what I was and hurt the very man that taught me right and wrong, the man I – “

Castiel’s voice breaks then.

“Hey,” Dean says. “Come here.”

“Remember when we sat on that bench, in that park, and you told me you had doubts? You were never a hammer, Cas. You were always good. You can’t go back to being somebody else because you’ve always been good. You just needed someone to tell you that what you felt, what you thought, that it was right. I didn’t _change_ you, Cas. I asked you to make a choice, and you made the right one, because you’ve always been good.”

Castiel looks at him, drinking in those words desperately as well. There’s a silence, which hands heavy and loud between them.

“And, well,” he looks down, “if it makes you feel any better, I promise not to ask you for something like that again. But, Cas…you have to tell me, all right? If something makes you unhappy, you have to tell me. Promise?”

“I promise, Dean,” Castiel says solemnly.

“Good. Now come here. I haven’t gotten my share of cuddling for the morning,” he says. It’s still early morning, and Dean figures they can steal a few minutes. The bed remembers them both, just as Castiel’s body feels like it remembers him when they press against each other.

“Hey,” Dean whispers. Castiel blinks at him, and Dean catches his lips in a kiss. “My angel,” he murmurs, before pressing himself against Castiel. He feels like he could drown in the safety of his body. Castiel throws an arm around Dean, and Dean can feel the angel’s breath on the back of his neck – how strangely human for an angel to breathe.

He can hear Sam moving down in the kitchen, thinks that soon they’ll have to be up, but these moments are theirs. In the safety of each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> So, while I"m completely fascinated by the way the mind works through trauma and different ways of getting through it, and while I've done some reading on PTSD, both from sexual and non-sexual situations, and on using BDSM as a way of dealing with it, I can't guarantee that I've done it justice. There are probably inaccuracies, and I won't be upset if they get pointed out, though I must also point out that, this being fan fic, some amount of inaccuracy is a given. 
> 
> Full kink meme prompt [here](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/70609.html?thread=24173777).


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